


Not Straight

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-series 4?, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:19:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2389697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John moves back into 221B. Feelings come up. Happy ending. *^_^*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Straight

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-series 4 (or 5? Can't imagine Mary being around for another entire series...)
> 
> Sherlock POV, stream-of-consciousness, here there be run-ons (^_~)

 

John’s footsteps on the stairs – _his_ stairs – no one else used them during his absence. Finished his unpacking then. At the table, pretend to read the paper, try to look like I haven’t been waiting for him to come down. John wanders into the kitchen, sits across from me, sighs. Boredom? Exhaustion? Disappointment? Hard to say, need more data. I put aside the paper and look up.

He’s watching me, weary half-smile on his lips. Not disappointed then. Good.

“This past year has been…rather hard.” John, always so masterfully understated (unlike me, the drama queen, the overly emotional sociopath flying off the handle. Irony). Pain behind his eyes, even while his lips curl up at the corners. Choosing to smile. Determined. Lovely.

My stomach clenches – is this how it will be, now that he’s back? (He _is_ back, isn’t he? This isn’t just a stopover on his way to a bachelor’s pad or another marriage?) Will every look that passes over his _sadbeautifulkindexpressiveperfect_ face stop my heart in its tracks? Will I ever be able to meet his eyes without the pit of my stomach dropping out and my breath catching and my entire being tinged with panic at the thought of losing him again?

Breathe. Wait.

John’s still talking.

“I want you to know how much it means to me, everything you’ve done, being there for me through the shooting and Mary and the…” He trails off, can’t finish that thought. Shakes his head to clear it.  

“You’re a good friend.” He reaches out, covers my hand with his. I look at it, lightly resting over mine on the table. Six points of contact, five fingertips and the palm. Realise I’m staring, force myself to look away, don’t want John to get uncomfortable, risk losing the warmth of his touch. Look into his eyes instead. His hand stays on mine.

“Thank you for letting me move back in here. It’s nice to be somewhere that feels like home.”

 _Only when you’re here, John_.

“It’s nothing,” I say out loud.  

“It’s not nothing.” His thumb is moving, tracing slow circles in the fleshy bit between my thumb and forefinger. Stroking adductor pollicis, first dorsal interosseous, skin suddenly on fire. Breathe.

“It’s everything, actually.” His voice is a hoarse whisper, barely audible. The throaty sounds caress my tympanic membranes. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips and I’m lost, I’m leaning forward, rational thought halted, focus narrowed to his glistening mouth, I’m leaning forward and I’m not thinking and my lips are on his.

Moments pass. Years? Time has no meaning. His thumb has stilled, his breath is rapid, his lips passive. My mouth is pressing against him, sucking in his air, memorising his taste his smell the texture of his skin the contour of his lower lip.

I kiss him and he isn’t moving and the reality of linear time comes crashing back in as I feel the familiar pang of unrequited emotion. How long have I had my lips held against his, uninvited, unwelcomed, unwanted? I pull back abruptly and stand, turn away, hurry to the sitting room. Escape.

John follows. Of course he follows. He always does.

“Sherlock!”

I stand at the window, back to him, trembling, anxiety welling up like a tsunami building to unleash the tidal wave of a full-blown panic attack. Try to calm. Breathe. I can’t.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” I know he can see me shaking, quaking with sheer terror. I can’t turn around, can’t face him (ever again?). I wrap my arms around myself tightly and squeeze. Apply pressure to regain control over my body. The tremors subside to weak shudders, manageable.

His hands on my shoulders. How did he come up behind me without my notice? Right, panic attack. Blocks external stimuli, locks awareness into jittering body and screaming brain. Blinding.

He turns me around. My eyes are fixed on the ground, on my shoes, on my arms crossed at my chest, anywhere except John. His gentle hands guide me to my chair. The tenderness is unbearable.

He sits across from me, in his chair, empty for so long it hurt to look at, kept it in my bedroom to torture me to sleep. Please don’t leave again, John. Can’t survive any more restless nights staring at that empty chair. He clears his throat.

“We need to talk.” My guts wrench, jaw clenches against overwhelming nausea. Air feels thin, not enough oxygen.

“I know we don’t talk much about sex – not really your area, as I recall –” I wince. “But mates – best mates – should know a bit about each other's relationships and sex lives. At the very least, their orientations.”

Here it comes. I know this bit by heart. So stupid, how could I have thought otherwise when he’s always been painfully clear on this point? Romanticism, sentiment, delusions. My mind has failed me, overrun by wishful chemicals, hopeful neurotransmitters playing havoc with my rational thought processes. Pathetic.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this now.” He sighs. “Should have done it a long time ago, but I thought you weren’t…” Pause. My heart pounds so violently in the silence I am sure he can hear it. “Well, doesn’t matter now.” Another pause. I can’t endure this any longer, listening to him fumble for words as he tries to spare my feelings. I just want him to say it, get it over with, end this horrible conversation and let me leave, flee – where? Bedroom, lock the door, no, still too close. Down the stairs out the door on the street, disappear into the crowds, let London swallow me whole, engulf me in her distracting cacophony of sounds smells colours churning frenetic activity.

No, John will follow me, even in my mind. He always does. London can’t exist without him (I can’t exist without him? _Sentiment_ ). There is nowhere to go, no place I can escape his voice in my head, his face in my mind, his lips in my memory. Trapped.

“Sherlock, you should know, or rather, I should tell you, I’m –”

“Not gay, yes, I know.”

“– bisexual.”

 

Full stop.

 

He’s looking at me, waiting for a response, some signal that I heard him, understood him.

I’m not sure I do.

“So you’re…” I attempt to form the words, fail. Swallow hard, try again.

“That is to say, you’re –”

“Bisexual.”

“– not straight.”

He chuckles softly, wry humour breaking through the nervous tension in his face.

“Yes, not entirely straight, that’s a good way to put it – not exactly bisexual, really. Possibly biromantic or demisexual or some newly coined term invented for the modern sexual landscape,” he continues, words coming quickly now, as if floodgates have opened and everything is pouring out at once. I let them rush over me, barely comprehending as they submerse my consciousness.

“The gist of it is, I am sometimes attracted to men, certain men, who I have an emotional attachment to. Not a general sexual attraction towards men, but yes, for specific men, I do.” I am silent, rapt.

“Men is a bit misleading, I suppose, as I’ve only felt this way towards two men in my entire life. One was in the army –”

James Sholto. Of course. I suspected, half-hoped half-feared, and the confirmation burns through me, equal parts desperate desire and seething jealousy, whiting out my vision with mad vengeful lust, don’t picture it, don’t think of them, together, in his tent or on a late night reconnaissance mission or in the back of a Humvee or –

“– and the other one is, well…” He smiles at me, shyly, eyes glittering with warmth.

I am still in Afghanistan, visions of passionate trysts under the stars consume my awareness. Endless sand and dry chapped lips and fumbling hands, senses on fire, alert, honed for danger, everything sharpened by the thrilling risk of death so close you can taste it. The anguish ripping through me is stunning. I can barely see John, sitting across from me, enigmatic smile on his lips, waiting.

Waiting for me to catch up. Process what he’s said. Divine the intent behind his words. My brain is moving at half-speed, not quite willing to let go of its jealous fantasies. I force it to jump tracks. Replay John’s words. Analyse.

 _Oh_.

Oh, John.

Then there is nothing.

I must be staring blankly, my mouth perhaps open, my blinking rapid, or am I unable to blink at all? I don’t know, can’t know anything other than this one thought: John.

I am vaguely aware that John is getting up, moving in my peripheral vision, coming towards me, settling on the left arm of my chair. His right hand rests on the back of my chair, behind my head, and it barely registers, this closeness.

“Okay, that’s getting a bit scary now.” His left hand comes up to cup my chin, gently turning my face to meet his. He’s looking down at me, fond expression in his eyes.

“Hi.” Benevolent amusement, grinning now, eyes crinkle at the corners.

It’s a ludicrous thing to say, meaningless greeting, inappropriate to use now, mid-conversation, in our shared flat on a Tuesday afternoon. And yet at its sound – this simple inane single syllable – something in me melts, releases, gives up and gives in to this moment.

I close my eyes and turn my face into John’s hand. He strokes my cheek with his thumb, and I feel myself purr into the touch. I can’t bring myself to be embarrassed by the noises that escape me as his right hand finds my neck, nails scraping my scalp as he draws his fingers up through my hair.

“Oh god, _you_ ,” he breathes. “You, for so long, I…” He shudders out a sigh.

I look up at him, stunned by the intense desire plainly written across his face.

“You…you want me.” My voice wavers, cracks, collapses under the weight of the words. Uncertain, practically a question, can’t believe my own eyes, ears, senses all suspect.

John grips my jaw more firmly, pulls me closer, eyes locked on mine, blazing with heat. I hold my breath.

“I want you.” His voice is low and full of gravel and has never sounded so sweet. He leans forward and his lips are on mine for the second time today (the second time ever…but surely not the last?) and everything else falls away.

John.

  

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr: [iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not Straight [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5803936) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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